The Virtue of a Shade
by BountyHunterGirl134
Summary: Post Season 5. Fifteen-hundred years after his death, Arthur rises again to find Albion exactly the way he left it. Now he must reunite with his queen and his people, living as refugees in the Darkling Woods as a dark power rules over Camelot, keeping time frozen in place and terrorizing the land. But how can he defeat Albion's greatest threat if Merlin himself is the enemy?
1. Chapter 1

The Virtue of a Shade

**Welcome, Merlinians. Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes predeceding your journey.**

**So, before you read anything, anything AT ALL, let me explain something: Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead :P Blame Morgana the Bit- Witch. Witch. **

**So here's to my first Merlin fanfiction! Yay! I suppose there's nothing worse than ignoring all your other In-Progress fanfictions and pushing aside your major grade English research paper to write a completely new story! **

**That's actually all true up there, I really do have a yet-to-be-started report due in a week, and I've been procrastinating on both my Harry Potter and my Power Rangers fictions. Not to mention the fact that my last In-Progress report is on quite a few months of hiatus. *facepalm* I am a _despicable _person. **

**So here I am. Please read, review, and enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin. **

Arthur opens his eyes on the sandy edge of Avalon's lake, and knows something is wrong.

He sees trees.

This, of course, is what makes things _terribly _wrong.

However, he not only sees trees, but feels the grainy sand under his palms, tastes the cold breeze upon his tongue, and smells the scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers swaying in the wind. He hears the shifting of spring grass, detects the cheeping of newly-hatched bluebirds, and senses the serenity and peace in the air. Everything feels frozen in a reposal of stillness, for lack of a better word, and the world feels harmonious in its ways. The sky is free from turmoil, and the earth free of pain, and the air free from anguish.

It's practically the way he left it.

In fact, it looks _exactly _the way he left it.

And this is when he realizes things are _terribly, awfully_ wrong.

By now, any sane, probably-less-knowledgeable-than-was-necessary-at-the-given-time person may have assumed that Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, uniter of Albion, son of Uther the Tyrant and half-brother of Morgana the Witch, master of the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth, _the Once and __Future King, _had gone completely, stark raving mad. _Wrong? _They would say incredulously. _What could possibly be wrong, boy? Are things not well here? Is the world not at peace as you departed it? Had you not left us with grace?_

Arthur Pendragon would then explain how _that was the complete point, you featherbrained twit, don't you see what's going on here? I left you with this peace. I left you with _this _peace. This peace. The same peace! _

And so it was.

Fifteen-hundred years after his death.

_And the world was the same._

For Arthur does not only see the trees, but he sees the _same_ trees. He does not only smell the wildflowers, but he smells the _same_ wildflowers. He does not only lie on the shifting, gritty sand, but the _same _shifting, gritty sand.

Fifteen-hundred long, sluggish, tedious years have passed since Arthur Pendragon was set away from this world, lain to wait for Albion's darkest of times. He has waited centuries to return and retake his rightful place as King of Camelot, bound to serve and protect his people and his kingdom. He has patiently and generously awaited this very moment, the moment where he would awaken with strength and purpose to save a broken and tattered world, foretold so very, very long ago, farther than the mind's eye could ever hope to comprehend, and rise victorious to once again be the greatest King the United Kingdoms had ever known.

And now Arthur is back, and everything is exactly the same.

And so everything is wrong.

* * *

Arthur nearly drowns back into Avalon the day he returns.

It's an ironic and stupid way to finally, legitimately die, he thinks, as he opens his eyes and feels the soaked, heavy weight of his chainmail and firey-red cape doing their best to hold him down in the water. His cape tangles between his legs as he desperately attempts to swim to the surface, his muscles pulling and climbing with a millennium's worth of waiting. His lungs scream for air, and after a few moments they recieve their reward as he finally claws his ways to the surface. Sighting the shore, just a few yards away, he quickly moves toward the sandy bank and scrambles up onto it, falling onto his back and just letting himself breathe for a moment.

He supposes the eighteen-and-a-half foot distance between the shore and the water where Freya booted him back into the world is finally her "playful" payback for him killing her all those centuries ago. Arthur can almost hear her teasing laughter in his head. The motion is not appreciated by the afflicted party.

After few, long moment's rest, Arthur sits up with a muffled groan, stretching out his limbs as best he can under his dripping chainmail and cape. He can feel wet sand stuck to his hair and neck, and grimaces as grit slides under his chainmail and coat, straight into his tunic. Even in the warm, mid-day sun, he shivers slightly under the cold metal of his mail. To his left, the lake's cool, glassy water laps almost timidly at the shore, rippling a _Welcome Back_ from across the way. Arthur wonders for a moment if Freya is watching him now. He doesn't quite doubt it.

It's during his pondering he looks around and sees Camelot as he's always known it.

_Wrong. So, so very wrong. _

His leather boots squeak and squelch as Arthur clambers hurriedly to his feet, ignoring his stiff muscles and unpleasantly wet socks, observing the area around him with a hawk's eye. Warning signals- _this isn't right, was Freya on time?, did something go wrong?- _flit through his head, and he tries to push them away so he can think clearly for a moment. Everything seems tranquil and easeful around him, and his instincts immediately flare with suspicion. Where was the war? Where was the great looming threat? Where was Albion's mortal peril?

Trouble doesn't take vacations. And in Arthur's case, trouble barely even stops in a tavern for a mug of ale and a bar fight with Gwaine.

Thinking of Gwaine (drunk, intolerable Gwaine, but still Gwaine nontheless) seems to steer Arthur's mind toward Camelot and it's residents. He takes a moment, remembers the busy and colorful marketplaces of Camelot's main square, remembers the cobblestone courtyard and the towering spires of the castle. He remembers the Darkling Woods of Camelot's borders, the sloping, emerald green earth of Camelot's outer lands, littered with the gold of newly grown wheat and the red of freshly ripened apples hanging like dewdrops from the emerald trees. He remembers the grey slabs of stone that were the castle walls, adorned with crimson and gold drapes and burning torches. He remembers his room: the warm, crackling fire in the grate (he shivers again just thinking about it), his carved wooden table and chairs, his ruby bedcurtains and drapes, his stained glass window that shone with magnificent, colorful light when they were revealed from under their curtained coverings, awakening him from slumber as he rolled over in his silken sheets to embrace his other half-

Gwen.

And just like that, a crowd of people are flicking through his mind like a flock of frighten birds: Gwen, Uther, Morgana, Leon, Percival, Gwen, Gwaine, Morgana, Morgause, Uther, Gaius, Gwen, Gwaine, Elyan, Mithian, Uther, Gwen, Mordred, Mordred, Gwaine, Mithian, Leon, Percival, Morgause, Gaius, Gwen, Gwen, Uther, Gwen, Morgana, Leon, Mithian, Mordred, Percival, Gwen, Elyan, Gwaine, Elyan, Gaius, Gwen-

_Merlin._

If a tree falls in the forest and everyone's around to hear it, does it still fall softly?

No. No. It crashes.

The thought of Merlin seems to make everything else in Arthur's head fade into sudden shadow, pushed against the walls of Arthur's mind as the single, solitary idea of Merlin himself shines like a beacon in the middle of all of them. Merlin. Mer_lin_. Merlin the manservant. Merlin the physician. Merlin the apprentice. Merlin the ward. Merlin the idiot. Clotpole. Lazy. Clumsy. Foolish. Wise. Intolerable. Loyal. Intelligent. Innocent. Gutless. Fainthearted. Determined. Persistant. Optimistic. Enduring. Persevering. Brave. Hopeful. Friend. Brother. Hero. _Magic._

Merlin the sorcerer.

Arthur finally sits again, falling onto his knees in the sand as he lets himself think. His final moments with Merlin are seared in his memory with a branding iron fashioned of mourning. His last words as the world went blurry and black, Merlin struggling with everything he had to save his king, his friend, his _brother,_ Arthur's anger, then guilt, then thankfulness, his last view of the world two broken, darkened blue eyes trying desperately to keep him awake-

And then his mind is rewinding, and suddenly Arthur's fifteen-hundred years younger again and he's on that grass and his side, _oh it hurts so much_, and he's dying_dying_dying, and all he wants is to be with Gwen and his knights and his mother and his Merlin, _his Merlin, _but God it's too late, dear God it's much too late and everything is much too dark and foggy, and Mordred is dead and Morgana is dead and his father is dead, and now he, _he _will be dead, and there's so much blood and death and anger and hurt and love, and his Merlin, _Merlin_, he's so tired and it's too late, too late, too late-

_Panting. Frantic words. "Come on. We have to make it to the lake."_

_Protesting. "Merlin... Not without the horses... It's too late... it's too late..."_

Memories.

Arthur feels his heart clench.

"_All your magic, Merlin, you can't save my life..."_

_A quick denial."I can. I'm not going to lose you-"_

"_Just, just... just hold me. Please."_

His heart is beating too fast. Faster, faster, faster.

He knows what will happen. He knows what will happen.

_Hard to breath. So little air."There's... there's something I want to say..."_

_Arguing. Determination."You're not going to say goodbye."_

"_No... Merlin."_

Shaking. Shaking and trembling and it's colder than before now.

Arthur is cold.

_Fighting for air. "Everything you've done... I know now. For me... for Camelot... for the kingdom you helped me build."_

"_You'd have done it without me."_

_A chuckle. "Maybe."_

No. Stop it. This was too much.

Something is in Arthur's eyes. He rubs at them with a shaky nervousness. His hands vibrate like little earthquakes.

_Last chance. His last chance."I want to say... something I've never.. said to you before..."_

Arthur's whole body is trembling, rattling, quivering. Something wet is on his cheek, but the lake is over there, and his breathing- he can hardly breathe. The air is too thick and his throat is clogged with something, but he swallows and it still doesn't go away. The pounding of his heart echoes in his ears, and he barely hears an animal nearby make a rasping, choking, heartbreaking, tear-jerking, _painful_ cry. It takes a moment to realize it's his own mouth making these almost silent, awful noises. He wraps his arms around his chest, bending over and trying to breathe because there's a hole in a chest, deeper and more painful than Mordred's and it's inside and _it's killing him. _

He doesn't understand why. He doesn't understand _why._

_StopstopstopstopstopstopSTOP pleasepleasepleasestop._

It cannot stop. Just as it could not stop fifteen-hundred years ago.

"_Thank you."_

_And memory-Arthur reaches up, patting his servantwarlockfriendbrother's head, stroking his short raven hair, and he smiles, but it's gone almost immediately because his strength is gone, and Merlin is looking at him with his big, open, beautiful blue eyes and the world is fuzzy and black and going-_

_Soft like a whisper. "Arthur. Hey."_

_A warm hand on his face. No light, no light, no light. His eyes are closed._

_SomethingsomeoneMerlin is shaking him, part gently, part roughly with love and hurt and cracking determination and ohgodnononono. _

"_ARTHUR!"_

_His eyes startle open and there's Merlin, his Merlin, and those beautiful open eyes are filled with so much love and pain and loss, pleading and begging and tearing and breaking, and oh Lord there's so much heartbreak, and Arthur's trying, pleaseiwanttostayohgodplease MerlinMerlinMerlin, but the light is so far away and Merlin is all that's left, and oh god Merlin needs him and he has to get up, but it's too late, too late, and Merlin's eyes are screamingshriekingdying with their own kind of pain and tears and anguish and Arthur is guilty, so guilty, and there's only blue eyes and raven hair and red neckerchiefs and magic and broken hearts._

_Three words. _

"_Stay with me."_

_Three words. _

_Arthur's heart breaks and there's blue and black and red and his heart beats for the final time and then there's nothing._

_His little bird has clipped his wings. The sun is gone. _

This is the pain that Arthur missed when he died. Now here it was, making up for lost time.

Arthur wonders for a moment if Avalon's lake wasn't just all in his head, because the water pouring from his eyes, more, he thinks, than he's ever cried in his life, seems to be enough water to have filled the entire lake to the brim. He shakes and trembles and shudders so, so awfully. If he tried to stand he would fall flat on his face. He leans over because he's convinced he might retch from the sheer bout of mixed emotions running through his insides, twisting his stomach and squeezing his heart and tearing at his chest, clawing it's way to the surface. He rocks weakly, clutching at his torso, trying sorrowfully to hold himself together, because this ache, this _pain_, could only come from being forcibly, terribly torn over from the inside. Somehow, he thinks, he would rather be physically torn apart than this empathetical, excruciating, internal pain.

He abandoned them. God, he abandoned them.

How many times had he sat in Avalon and wondered about Merlin and Gwen and his knights and his kingdom? How many times had he stared at the stars at night and missed his better half, cursed to rule alone because he had not been strong or quick or smart enough? How long had he lay in bed at night and stared at the fire, hating it because when he woke up every morning of his centuries in the other land, it wouldn't be Merlin who was tending the fire or bringing him breakfast or throwing open his curtains with a flourish and a _"Rise and Shine!"_

Lancelot and Freya had done the best they could to keep him occupied in Avalon. Freya was a wonderful, beautiful girl who adored Merlin so much. She held so much love and kindness and merriment and beauty; Arthur could never have seen anything done to this girl, much less let her live under the curse she had been burdened with as a mortal. The guilt for her murder, for _his_ murder of her, was overwhelming, but she had just smiled at him softly and done the best she could for him anyway. She had talked to him, listened to him. She had showed him Avalon's farthest reaches, and introduced him to the people of the land. She had taught him how to cook, taken him on walks and swum with him in Avalon's crystal waters, given him books to read and maps to examine. She had taken Excalibur many times and hidden away with it, waiting for him to find her, as he always did, in their impromptu game to try and keep him busy. She had sewn him tunics out of a divine fabric; they had felt weightless upon wearing them, but still kept him warm in Avalon's cooler days. She had once made him a crimson neckerchief and left it lying gently on his pillow; he had kept it in his pocket every day since.

Under the position of the Lady of the Lake, Freya was the only one of them who could see beyond Avalon into the world across the water, but she could not speak of the world, nor Camelot or Merlin or Gwen to any of them. She was kept back by the rules of the Old Religion, she had explained, regret burning furiously in her kind, soulful eyes when Arthur had begged, _begged, _for some news, any news at all about his Kingdom and his people. There was always a hidden truth inside of her, and sometimes Arthur found himself resenting her, and then resenting himself when he found that, once again, his temper had gotten the best of him. She had lived an entire life of things not of her choice or fault, had she not?

Lancelot had explained everything that had happened with Guinevere all those years ago the first day Arthur had set his royal feet into Avalon. Lancelot: the noblest, and most brave-hearted of knights. Once, a time ago, Arthur would have thought differently; now, with the truth finally, finally fully in his grasp, Arthur could not have agreed more. Lancelot was humble and courageous and respectful and noble and _good_, just as he had been when Arthur had known him. The knight was dauntless and fearless, but he was also kind and loyal; Arthur had gladfully reknighted him upon Lancelot's request, Freya watching with a gentle smile and applauding at all the right moments. Arthur and Lancelot had sparred every day to come after his knighthood had been restored. He had been a good drinking partner (however, intoxication had been strictly prohibited in Avalon, to Arthur's irritation), a beneficial opponent, an adept listener and an intellectual speaker when the need came. He had done the best he could; Arthur could not help regreting that it still had not been enough.

Merlin's father. Balinor. The almost-last Dragonlord. He had been there too. Seeing him every day, hearing him regale children of Avalon, human and magic alike, with stories and tales and myths of his times in Albion, watching him associate playfully and happily with the dragons of the land, had been oh so very hard. Raven hair and beard. Blue eyes. A strong heart and wise advice. _Magic. _He had been too like Merlin to bear.

Avalon had not allowed him to feel the physical pain of his towering emotions, the pain he was crawling through at this very moment, struggling to breathe, fighting for release. Avalon had not been enough; the guilt had been too much. There had been no medium, no middle ground, no no-man's-land.

Was it possible, he had wondered, to be the only one not to have forgiven himself for the wrongs he had done to those he cared about?

Yes, he knew. Because he still wanted to be strong enough.

Arthur didn't know how long he sat there, trembling and rocking and sobbing under the weight of fifteen centuries worth of locked away guilt and pain, holding himself together as best as he could manage, but when he had no more tears to cry and his sore, aching body was ready to collapse onto the bank, he finally opened his eyes. Looking up into the sky, he saw that the sun had moved farther westward toward it's setting point. Through red rimmed eyes, he estimated the time: it could not have been longer than a few hours until sunset. But he did not move.

He wasn't sure he knew how to yet.

The raging inferno in his chest had dulled to a flickering flame, aching and throbbing gently in his heart. Almost of it's own accord, his hand raised and fell to cover his heart, feeling through his chainmail for the thrumming of his heart. Ever, ever so gently he felt it, pulsing through his tunic and his coat and his mail to move beneath his fingers. His breathing had calmed, falling from irregular, painful sobs back into a soft, regular state. Softly, he used his other hand to wipe away the remaining tears from his face.

He didn't know how he could ever look at himself again. What kind of king was he now, nearly crumpled on Avalon's bank, broken and sobbing and _weak? _What king died by the hands of his own knight, stupidly oblivious to the Druid in disguise, the deciding factor in Mordred's final pledge to Morgana? What king let a sword's wound take him to the grave? Why had he not fought? Fighting was something he had been good at.

Why. Had he not. _Fought_?

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, the lake's water pushed forward, lapping up the shore so high that it washed against his side. There was the swish of the moving water, so quick he didn't have time to see it hit his side, and then it retracted, falling back into it's normal rhythmic pattern, as if it's unnaturally high rising had been completely normal.

And as Arthur looked over, he froze, staring.

At the water's edge, blade shoved into the sand and gold-incrusted hilt pointed toward the sun, reflected the metal of the sword of Excalibur, the greatest sword ever made, forged in the dragon's breath, for the Once and Future King, and that king alone.

And as Arthur stared, he saw, for the slightest moment, something that would have been missed had he not been looking slack-jawed at his long-lost sword, a flash of two warm, encouraging, bold chocolate eyes upon the metal of the sword. They gave a wink, and then Freya's eyes were gone, returned to her rightful place among Avalon, protector of it's gates.

But the message. The message had come through.

And a few minutes later, as Arthur strode with head high into the forest, Excalibur fitted perfectly in his right hand, blonde hair and chailmail shining in the late-day sun and his cape billowing majestically behind him, he realized that she wasn't the only one returning to her rightful place.

_The King has returned._

**I hope you guys liked this first chapter :) Stay tuned! More to come!**

**Remember to review!**


	2. Chapter 2

The Virtue of a Shade

**Welcome, Merlinians. Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes predeceding your journey.**

**So, before you read anything, anything AT ALL, let me explain something: Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead :P Blame Morgana the Bit- Witch. Witch. **

**So here's to my first Merlin fanfiction! Yay! Now I've got four In-Progress stories to keep track of!**

*******dies*******

**Ahem. Anyway. Please read, review, and enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.**

It takes roughly three-and-a-quarter days on foot for Arthur to finally make it to the Valley of the Fallen Kings, just outside the White Mountains, which bordered Camelot from the west. Even after fifteen-hundred years spent in Avalon, Arthur hasn't forgotten the geography of his own kingdom; he remembers the forests, the trees, the rivers. He remembers his favorite, most productive hunting paths, and the flowered oases scattered throughout the woodlands of the realm. He remembers the smell of honeysuckle and fresh dew upon the grass and moss-covered trees, and knows the primative, raw, simple _feel _of the land around him- _his _land. It's as familiar as the very back of his hand.

Just as Avalon's bay has remained untouched, to Arthur, the Valley of the Fallen Kings looks just as overgrown and shady as ever, though, perhaps, without quite as many bandits, sorcerers, and other inhabitants of his kingdom in the long list of people who want him dead. The deadly, unnerving silence that fills the air as Arthur hikes his way through the gorge keeps him quite unsettled. His ears buzz with constant alertness, eyes darting every which way to make sure all is, and stays, well. The valley seems quite clear and nonthreatening, give or take a few stray animals that dart through the underbrush every now and then, sometimes loudly and suddenly enough that Arthur is startled into drawing his sword, instincts on fire for battle, only to be disappointed as a terribly frightened rabbit or fox squeals and runs like the entire forest has been set ablaze. It's somewhat satisfying, as awful as it sounds, when he catches a few of the offending rabbits, almost cheerful at the thought of the nice, juicy meat he would have for dinner that night.

He ignores the sad little voice in his head that sounds horribly like Merlin, berating him for the death of the small, helpless creatures; he knows he has to eat, and since royal feasts and such things are next to nothing in the bloody forest of all places, Arthur takes what he can get. He also manages to collect some edible, and not too shoddy-tasting berries from the vegetation around him, and finds a small but efficient fresh-water stream just a two-minute's walk from the small cave he settles in when the sun had begun to set on the fourth day of his travel. The notch in the ravine is modest, but etiquette, the ceiling high enough for him to sit straight without slouching over or having to bend his head, and the opening is closed off by a curtain of mossy vines; without his years of careful training and precision, Arthur would never have noticed the spot. The driftwood he collects is nice, dry, and sturdy, and lights beautifully with just a few scrapes of flint against flint and some rather dangerously flammable leaves he discovers on the same shrubbery.

By the light and heat of the fire, Arthur skins and guts the rabbits, and then cooks them until they turn a mouth-watering golden-brown. They're a bit small as far as jackrabbits go, and they're not seasoned of course, but they aren't gut-wrenchingly revolting; Arthur sinks his teeth into them, even, like they're deep-coated in Merlin's homemade herbs and spices. The berries and figs he collected are soft and ripe, and the cool, clean water washes everything down nicely.

Finished, Arthur tosses a couple larger pieces of wood into the fire, then leans back against the wall of his haven and draws a rolled-up map out of his boot. Arthur's grateful for the map of Camelot that Freya sent with Excalibur, rolled up and tied with leather cord around the hilt., because while Arthur was perfectly capable of tracking his way through the general extent of Camelot's lands and outer reaches without so much as a compass on hand, this map marked specifically any potential roadblocks or barriers that Arthur might come across, such as, for example, a rockslide marked only a few miles from here that Arthur had had to skirt around a few hours before on his way toward Camelot. Without the map, it would have taken Arthur nearly twice as long to retrace his steps and find a way around the obstruction.

_Freya might not have been able to tell me about Camelot then, _Arthur thinks as he smooths the map out on the floor in front of him, _but thankfully even magic can be lenient now and again._

Observing the map, Arthur grimaces as he traces his finger along his intended path back to Camelot. Roughly three miles from his current position on the parchment, a red circle is drawn, just a few hundred yards or so before the valley opens up to the White Mountains, and beyond to Camelot. Inside the circle 'collapsed trees' is scrawled in Freya's loopy, graceful hand; it's obviously more of a predicament than it sounds- likely a pile of storm-blown trees blocking the valley's exit- and, after closely examining the map once more, Arthur groans aloud when he finds that he'll have to scale the cliffs in the morning and make his way around the blockage, then scale back down the wall to reunite with his original path. Arthur's plan is to make way around the White Mountains so as to stay out of any potentially problematic situations that would be likely to occur trying to pass through the mountains. The fact that Arthur's luck is extravagantly lacking in, well, _anything _beneficial, isn't a secret.

In turn, staying on the cliffs would make it impossible not to take the route through the mountains, and trying to avoid climbing the walls and simply facing the obstructions would mean quite a few more days he would be behind on reaching Camelot, stuck here trying to cut his way through fallen tree after fallen tree. While time doesn't have much relative importance at the moment, it would seem, since Arthur has absolutely no clue what Albion's "greatest peril" is at all quite yet, he's decided to return to Camelot as quickly and safely as possible, since this seems to be the most productive way of figuring out what's really going on.

Sighing, Arthur tucks the map back into his boot, then rocks forward and unclasps his cape from his shoulders and yanks off his gloves, discarding them on the cave floor. He scoots toward the fire again, stretching and warming his slightly stiff fingers. The flames crackle and pop with warmth, and for a moment Arthur almost longs to reach out and touch it, as if he could hold it without it's sting and burn, longs for the warmth the fire seems to try to be offering out to him. It's a mask, the mesmerizing beauty of the fire- inviting and warm on the outside, but within lies pain and anguish and a burning tempest.

_Just like Morgana,_ his mind suddenly whispers.

The temperature of the cave seems to drop ten degrees at this, and Arthur feels his gut twist. Pulling his hands away from the fire, he reaches for the red neckerchief that had come knotted around his right bicep when Freya had booted him back into the world. He pulls the knot out and takes the fabric into his fingers, feeling the weightless, silky texture of the scarf. It's cool to the touch, and in another moment of childish reckoning he wants to press his face into it, just to feel its satiny chill against his skin. Instinctive pride overpowers this ridiculous urge, however, and so he settles for running his thumbs over the glossy material instead, watching the brilliant crimson of the cloth flame a bright scarlet by the light of the flickering fire.

It's pretty unnerving how his mind has made such a terribly accurate connection between his half-sister and his deceptive, make-shift hearth. She had been as a fire was, her beauty and kindness and regalia masking the truth wrath underneath her expensive dresses and satin locks. They had been friends once, he hopes, but anger and fear can corrupt even the most lively, vibrant of people, and just as unbridled flames can burn down the mightiest cities, Morgana set aflame the walls and pillars and bridges of their relationship, all the relationships of those who had loved and cared for her, until only ashes and fire-stains remained branded in their hearts.

In contrast, he suddenly thinks, Merlin is like a river, or a stream- clear, cool, and refreshing. It holds life within itself, supporting and nurturing the lives of the creatures that thrive inside of it. It has its murky spots- even the most virtuous of beings have their secrets, big or small- but, when the sun shines down and the water sparkles with life, it doesn't always matter, because the light still overpowers the darkness.

And now that he's thought of all of this, he knows Guinevere, his beautiful, sweet, amazing Gwen, is like the very air itself. He needs her like his heart needs to beat; he gave it to her long ago, so he supposes, metaphorically, it really _is _her job to keep it beating. She's invigorating like the wind, vibrant and kind and _airy_. His very cries out for her. Fifteen-hundred years they've been apart, and his love hath never faded.

He almost laughs when he compares his most loyal, trusted knights to the earth, because the first thing that pops into his mind is how Gwaine is, most ironically,_ hard-headed_, and just how perfect the comparison is. There's still seriousness, however, in the likenesses. Leon, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, and Lancelot still, he knows now- strong, powerful, unyielding, truehearted, dedicated, steadfast. They're the epitomes of bravery, courage, and endurance. They're fighters, never bowing out or displaying cowardice in the face of insurmountable odds. Fewer people he's ever been more proud of.

They seem so far away; the logical part of his brain knows that they're only days away, waiting for him, but his emotions- they tell another story. He's been gone so long, so very, very long, and he hates that the distance between himself from himself to them- his best friend, his wife, his knights, his people, _everyone_- cannot make up for fifteen centuries' worth of lost time. He thought of them every single, agonizingly long day in Avalon, every hour, minute, _second. _There wasn't a moment when he stopped- through nights drinking down enough mead with Lancelot to kill a full grown giant, through he and Freya's games of hide-and-seek, through Balinor's literally as well as figuratively magical tales of adventure and danger, through reading and fighting and counseling and studying and hunting and sleeping and dreaming- they were there, always lingering in his mind. They're imprinted on his very self, his heart and soul, and he loves them.

_He loves them so much._

The snap of a breaking branch resounds from outside the cave and Arthur freezes instantly, tensing. He feels his ears twitch feebly, straining to hear something, _anything_, in the after-silence. The natural movements of the forest- the sway of the gentle breeze, the sound of rustling and shuffling feathers as mother birds settle their hatchlings down to sleep, the throaty _whoo _of owls, even the quick scurries of ants across the cave floor, stealing the leftovers of Arthur's meal- it all comes to a silent, deadly halt with him. He's not the only one who senses the intruder about.

Arthur cocks his head, listening. Long, strenuous moments pass, crawling by as Arthur listens for anything- another snapping branch, footsteps, the swish of a cloak or the gait of a wild animal- but there is nothing, no other indication that the harmony of the forest had been disrupted in any way in the last few moments. Another few, tedious minutes pass, and the nature around the king begins to relax again. The mother bird coos to her younglings, an owl hoots and swoops into the night sky, and the breeze blows again, sweeping briskly yet softly into the hovel.

Arthur frowns a bit, but his trained ears aren't detecting anything else peculiar in his surroundings. He reaches out, pulling Excalibur a bit closer to his side, but his body is already starting to unwind, his adrenaline fading. Cicadas chirp loudly in the trees, and the sound is soothing, like the crackling fire or the feel of the silken neckerchief held in his grasp. He figures now it must have been another fox or a frightened jackrabbit, perhaps the former chasing the latter down for it's evening meal, since, thinking over it, for nearly four days, Arthur hasn't seen one other living soul. Not one single person. No bandits, no merchants, no patrols, not even a nomad, or a druid either. The odds were next to nothing it really _had _been anyone. He throws another log into the fire.

There's the _shing! _of a swing sword, and the mutilated, mossy coverings of his camp collapse to the rock floor.

Arthur's on his feet before he can even think, Excalibur gripped tightly in his hand, at the ready. He barely takes in the sight of the cloaked figure standing with weapon lowered in the opening before he's lunging forward toward the trespasser, adrenaline pumping wildly through his body once again.

"No, no, wait! Arth- OOMPH-!"

The figure hits the ground with a gasp and a thud, his sword flying from his hand, as Arthur has just thrust his elbow into the man's stomach, knocking him painfully to the ground. He groans, struggling to sit up, but he's forced right back onto his back as the king pounces, slamming his knee onto the panting man's chest to hold him down. Excalibur's point is at the interloper's neck immediately. Wide eyes stare nervously up at the king, unseen beneath his hood by the vigorous, attacking monarch. Arthur leers down at the man.

"Who are you?" Arthur demands loudly, powerfully. "What are you doing here, how did you find me? Talk!"

"Arthur, it's me, it's me! Look, it's me!" The man exclaims quickly, and he throws his hood back immediately, revealing short black hair, tanned skin, and two large, terrified-looking eyes.

Arthur's jaw drops, and he gapes like a fish. "Lancelot?!"

It is indeed Lancelot, in the flesh, living and breathing. He looks just as he did their fifteen-hundred stay in Avalon, dark and tall and handsome, but the most shocking part is that he's _living_, actually living, just as he _wasn't _only a few days ago, wishing good lucks and waving goodbyes to Arthur as he left on his journey back to Camelot. Arthur is completely stunned.

"Yes, my lord," Lancelot chokes out uncomfortably, eyes moving from the king's face to the royal knee still planted firmly on his chest. "Er, my apologies, sire, but might you please...?"

Arthur blinks, pushing his shock aside. He lowers Excalibur, putting the trusty sword to the side, then stands, bowed under the low ceiling, and stretches out a hand to his knight, who accepts it gratefully. Lancelot sits up and shifts to rest against the cave wall, hand splayed over the spot where Arthur's knee had been shoved into his torso, massaging what's likely a fresh bruise. Arthur grabs Excalibur and moves to sit on the wall opposite him. Sliding down the surface of the wall, Arthur takes the moment in which Lancelot is regathering his breath- and his wits- to tend the fire with the end of his invincible sword, poking aimlessly at the flaming logs. After a long moment of just the sounds of the crackling fire and many, _many _chirping crickets, Lancelot looks up at his liege again, catching Arthur's eyes.

"I sort of figured you'd be surprised to see me," Lancelot says quietly.

"I don't understand," Arthur blurts out immediately, truthfully. "You're dead! Or, well—" his face scrunches in thought- "you_ were _dead, I suppose, but how in God's name did you..."

"Freya," Lancelot says simply. "And Balinor. They used magic to send me here after you."

"But it's not possible!" Arthur exclaims. "Balinor- he said no one could be brought back to life! It goes against the laws of life and death—"

"Ah, yes," Lancelot affirmed, nodding, "but, you see, I'm _not _alive."

Arthur's eyebrows draw together in confusion as he looks the knight up and down; he seems real enough. His mind still feels partly frozen, the cogs and gears in his brain failing to work appropriately.

"But..."

Lancelot frowns slightly as Arthur falls for a lack of words, and he takes the chance to move, shuffling sluggishly over on his rear to sit in front of the king. Flicking the drape of his cloak over his shoulder, he reaches up and pulls on the neckline of his olive-died jerkin aside, until his reveals the skin above his heart. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening.

The ugly scar adorning Arthur's side, the remaining evidence of Mordred's sword piercing through his body, looks tame compared to this. The flesh covering Lancelot's heart is ugly and marred, purple and red with bruising. The affliction is as big as Arthur's fist, and a tendril or two of the revolting blemish reach out like branches of a tree, stretching out over the skin of his shoulder. The skin around the mark is jagged and torn, as if tiny claws had pulled up on his very flesh. The sight is terrible and gruesome and so awfully _unworldly- _so such that Arthur's blood runs cold.

"What kind of magic did _this?_" Arthur murmurs, horrified, reaching out to touch the mottled bruise. It's tender, and disgustingly sponge-like under his fingers, and as Lancelot hisses in discomfort and Arthur draws his hand back, he fights the urge to vomit.

"The very complicated kind," Lancelot answers grimly, looking disdainfully down at the mark. "The scar is a coil of magic, and it's what's keeping me alive in this world."

"How do you mean?"

"The spell took my heart, Arthur," Lancelot says, fingering the fraying edges of his neckline uncomfortably. "The magic, well, it 'holds' it for you in a way- in Avalon, in my case, it's being kept safe until I return and the enchantment is lifted."

"Why?" Arthur asks, bewildered. "What's this all about?"

"The spell has allowed me to come here, Arthur, back to the realm of the living," explains Lancelot, "but not in the same way you've returned. I can only survive for an extended time here without my heart; eventually, I would be forced to go back to Avalon, willingly or not, to have my heart put back. So, you see, the spell doesn't truly bring you back to life- it just allows you to part with you heart, and the afterlife, for a short time."

"How long do you have?" Arthur questions, thinking over the load of new information.

"Until I've helped you complete your quest," Lancelot says simply.

"Against Albion's greatest threat?" Arthur asks wonderingly.

"Precisely."

"But we know next to nothing about it!" Arthur exclaims. "What if it takes years? Decades, even?"

"It's my destiny to help you save Camelot, Arthur," Lancelot says sincerely, looking up at his king with truthful, determined eyes, "and it's people, no matter how long it takes. I'm here to serve you my lord, with every cost on the line. I pledged myself to you a long time ago, sire, and that will never change."

Arthur sits quietly for a moment, thinking over the man's brutal honesty and loyalty, a pang in his heart at how similar the words are to the ones Merlin told him so very long ago, as Lancelot pushes himself to his feet, retrieves his sword from across the cave, and goes to kindle the fire.

"Something terrible has happened," Arthur says out loud, grabbing Lancelot's attention again.

"Have you seen something troubling, sire?"

"No, I haven't," says Arthur, and he grimaces, "and I'm afraid that might be the problem."

"My lord?"

"I haven't seen _one _other person, Lancelot," Arthur says, frowning. "Not one. No bandits, no druids, no vengeful sorcerers out for my head- no one except you. And while I loath to admit it, that scares me."

"Now that I think on it, I haven't seen anyone either," Lancelot admits, poking at the crisp, burning logs in the fire pit with the tip of his sword, "but I supposed that was just you passing through, sire." He throws a little smile at Arthur; the king does not return the gesture.

"The quiet here... it's unnerving," says Arthur slowly. "I wouldn't be here- living, breathing, fighting- if nothing was happening in Albion. But everything is so... peaceful... and calm... and it's _wrong._"

He combs his fingers through his hair in frustration, scowling, and then he's half-shouting at the listening Lancelot, blurting out the troubles that have been plaguing him for days, poking and prodding at him until he can stand it no longer. "And it's all the same too! The world is literally how I left it! Completely! It all looks exactly like it did when I died! The land, the trees, the flowers, the animals- everything! If so much time has really passed, none of this should even be left!"

Lancelot frowns. "What are you saying?"

"It's as if time has stopped," Arthur says, calming his voice and his nerves, collecting himself, staring into the tended fire. "I don't know why, or how or how long everything has been like this, but it's imperative that we find out. Whatever's frozen Camelot- it isn't good."

Lancelot nods slowly, thinking it all over. "Right..." he says- not condescendingly or with disbelief, but with interested acceptance of something he unknown, unacknowledged. Then he sighs, coming back to himself, and turns away from Arthur and back to the fire.

"I suggest we get some rest then, sire" he says, dimming the hearth. "If we want to reach Camelot in a couple of days, we'll need our strength."

**I'm sorry this took so long to update. My computer broke a couple of weeks ago right before I went on a short trip to Ohio for a few days, so I couldn't work on it at all, and then when I got back home, it took another week and a half or so to actually fix the dang thing. This computer has a lot of issues :P**

**Anyway, as I was writing this, I was absolutely **_**terrified **_**writing Lancelot's dialogue o.o I almost felt like he was really OOC. Hopefully he wasn't and I'm just being paranoid. **

**Thank you for reading, and please remember to leave a review for me!**


	3. Chapter 3

The Virtue of a Shade

**Welcome, Merlinians. Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes predeceding your journey.**

**So, before you read anything, anything AT ALL, let me explain something: Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead :P Blame Morgana the Bit- Witch. Witch. **

**So here's to my first Merlin fanfiction! Yay! Now I've got four In-Progress stories to keep track of!**

*******dies*******

**Ahem. Anyway. Please read, review, and enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.**

Arthur and Lancelot set out early the next day. Lancelot puts out the remaining flickers of flame left in the small hearth, and as the fire turns to ash and smoke, Arthur pulls Freya's map from his boot and explains the intended route to the knight. Lancelot is attentive and respectful, and he heeds Arthur's words with a "Yes, sire" and another stomp of his foot on the dying fire. They reclasp their capes and swords (still at the ready, because _really, _this is still Camelot, and it's highly unlikely that even after fifteen hundred years, the universe will go easy on Arthur), and once Lancelot has retied Arthur's scarlet neckerchief around the king's bicep, the two leave for Camelot.

Their walk is uneventful, as was the days before, and the two make it to their roadblock within the hour. It's even larger than Arthur had imagined, and thicker as well, and he's thankful that the Valley's walls are practically made up of furrowed grooves and ruts – nature's hand and footholds, carved wonderfully for a climb. They scale the embankment quickly and carefully; it's not terribly high in this part of the gorge, but at the moment, a fall would still hinder their continuing unnervingly lucky progress. They skirt quickly through the wood and make their way around the fallen trees, and once they've cleared their way below, they make their way back down into the rift and head away from the obstruction.

About a hundred yards later, Arthur spots the White Mountains through the trees on the higher ground. They're just as beautiful as he remembers, tall and snow-capped, even in Camelot's warmest summers. They loom over the Valley like a god, and for a moment Arthur feels almost_ afraid _of them – a deep-rooted, cautious, strange fear. In the seemingly abandoned world, in the solemness and quiet, the mountains are like monsters above him, stretching silently, deadly toward the blue of the sky, and Arthur's wariness skyrockets. He pushes it to the back of his mind, ignoring the ridiculousness of it all, and trudges on, Lancelot in stride.

After another couple hundred yards, the Valley thins out and they finally reach the stone-arched entrance. They jog up the earthen steps that descend into the rift, and when they reach the top the Valley ends and the world opens up into the far outer reaches of the Darkling Woods. It isn't quite the Darkling Woods here, really, with how far west the Valley lies, but the actual border of the woods aren't too far a walk from the Valley. The familiar forest path lies before them, and Arthur pushes away the memories of riding down this trail, Merlin beside him and his knights following him, as they always had.

Arthur reaches into his boot again, drawing out and unfolding Freya's map. He smoothes it out and studies it, Lancelot peering over his shoulder and keeping an eye out on their surroundings, his hand laid firmly on the hilt of his sword.

"There's a village a few miles from here," Arthur said, moving his finger along the map toward a small town marked off not too far from their current location. "Laxton. Small, but they're well known for bringing in the best tomato supply during the harvest season. Surely we can find someone to lend us a pair of horses-"

"If there's anyone there at all," says Lancelot, completing Arthur's thought. The king nods, replaces the map, and signals them onward.

Keeping to the forest road, it's nearly midday by the time they reach Laxton. The village itself _is _quite small, nestled in a cleared off part of the wood, but most of the village is a large field, covered in vine after vine of freshly-grown tomatoes, big and small, some ripe orange, others still green. A good three-quarters of the entirety of the village is tomatoes, and they all look perfectly unspoilt. The growing soil is moist to the touch, and since there's been not a bit of rain since Arthur's return, they conclude that there must certainly be people living in the village. Stealing a few of the larger, ripened tomatoes, the two make their way through the field to the main village, eating as they go.

Besides a random array of stray animals and, to their delight, a pen of horses lazily grazing and sleeping away, the town is utterly silent, and they realize with the utmost confusion that the town is completely deserted, devoid of any form of human life. They check and double-check every house, picking through every building, calling out for anyone that could hear. They hunt through the market-place and town square, listening for footsteps or voices of the people who lived there, swords drawn simply to steel their nerves.

"I don't understand it! This isn't possible," Arthur says, confounded. "The soil is watered and the tomatoes are fresh! The houses are clean, even the square is clean! _Someone _has to be here. If this place was really abandoned, none of this would even be possible."

"I haven't the faintest, sire," Lancelot answers. "This place, it's like it's not been touched for years. Everything's still in perfect condition: the water in the well, the crops, the flowers. Everything's been cared for, handled like any other functioning village. But it's _empty_. Completely empty. No families, no children, no merchants or beggars." He thinks for a moment. "Perhaps there's been an attack?"

"No," Arthur replies surely. "There would be signs of an invasion: structural damage, clear signs of a struggle, destroyed supplies and shelters torn down. It's too peaceful to have been an attack." He finally slides his sword away, disappointed and baffled.

"Surrendered without a fight?"

"There would still be signs of a forced invasion, and most of their essentials would be missing. There's still food and clothes and valuables here. Whatever happened to this town, I don't think violence was involved."

"So everyone just disappeared?" Lancelot asks sceptically. "They all just got up and left everything behind?"

"It's ridiculous, I'm aware," Arthur concedes, "but nothing here makes any sense. If this town isn't inhabited, it should be wearing down, possibly even completely ruined depending on how long it's been like this. And if it is inhabited, then where did everyone go? They wouldn't just leave, especially not without food or valuables, or anything else they would need to just leave the town behind."

"You were right about one thing, my lord," says Lancelot grimly, sheathing his sword, "something is most certainly wrong. Something's happened in the time you've been gone, there's no denying it now. Maybe in the Valley, _maybe, _but here, in a perfectly sound village? It's like everyone in Camelot has just vanished without a trace."

"We need to get back to the city," says Arthur sternly. "Now. We can't wait any longer, we need to find out what's happened here."

"There are saddles and supplies in most of the houses, sire," Lancelot says. "We go by horseback, Camelot shouldn't be more than a three hours ride away. Two if our way is unblocked and we ride fast enough. I think it's best we get there before the sun sets."

"Then we need to go immediately," commands Arthur. "Saddle and rein two of the horses, the best ones you can find. I'll pack some food, get some clean water from the well. Ten minutes."

Lancelot nods his assent, then right away runs off to collect two pairs of saddles and reins. Arthur watches him for a moment, then turns and approaches the nearest market shop.

The merchandise left in the market turns out to be just as fresh and cared for as everything else in the peculiar little town. Arthur enters the food shop and ducks behind the counter, finding and taking two cloth sacks and two water skins from beneath the wooden counter top, then scours the shop for food, packing tomatoes, onions, apples, carrots, corn ears, bread rolls, nuts, sugar cubes, and napkin-wrapped cheese into the cloth bags.

Once he's finished packing enough food for their trip, plus some in case their route doesn't follow smoothly as planned, he steps outside and fills the mole-skin sacks with water from a small barrel outside. Replacing the top of the barrel, Arthur grabs his things and makes a quick stop in the nearby inn. From behind the counter he collects two small knives and two woolen blankets. With everything in hand, he starts back to the horse pen.

Lancelot's beaten him to it, and when Arthur arrives, he's finishing buckling the second saddle onto the other horse. Both are young and quite muscular, well-bred to be ridden. Arthur hands Lancelot one of everything he collected and they tuck their supplies into the saddle bags before swinging up onto the horses and righting themselves on their new steeds.

"We travel east from here," Arthur says, gripping his reins tightly. "If we're fast, we should make it before evening falls."

"Yes, sire," Lancelot replies, nudging his horse with his heel.

They spur their horses immediately into a run, riding quickly out of the pen and down the main path back onto the forest trail. They curve left and begin to ride east, pushing their horses on as fast and hard as they can go without exhausting them too quickly.

The horses truly are well-bred, trained for speed, and within the first hour, the two make it halfway to Camelot. The forest path is clear, mind a coating of leaves and dirt from what the two figure is disuse. Their deductions are confirmed by the lack of any footprints along the way, human and animal alike. Even the wild animals don't seem to trespass here.

They slow their horses to a trot once they've hit the halfway point, and they keep a slow pace until Lancelot points out a stream visible through the forest foliage. They steer the horses to the stream and dismount, letting their steeds refresh themselves before they move on again. Arthur and Lancelot settle under a nearby tree and drink and eat as well, keeping an eye on the horses as they do so. They rest for a bit, finishing some of their rations and quickly rechecking the map to confirm their course, before they collect their horses, repack their food and water, and set out once more.

Arthur's anticipation mounts as they grow closer and closer, from an hour's distance to a half-hour's distance to a quarter-hour's distance. If Lancelot notices the way Arthur's hands grip the reins as if for dear life, he says nothing, only keeps speed with his king as they ride quickly down the trail.

The trees grow thicker and thicker as they finally come within sighting distance of Camelot. Arthur frowns, his nerves screaming to see Camelot once more, to see the view of the crowded market-place, to smell the scents of roasting pig in the kitchens or Guinevere's sweet-smelling hair, the sounds of the knights training, swords clashing, or Merlin's nonsensical, jovial retorts. His longing for home is increasing, rising like the ocean tides, and he almost wants to scream out loud. He might've, except Lancelot is with him here, watching over him, fighting for him, keeping him safe.

They slow as they approach familiar landmarks – a tree stump here, some flowers there, a blossoming apple tree _(still _blossoming, Arthur thinks grimly) _–_ they slow again, letting their horses stroll. Arthur feels nervous and tense as they approach the end of their journey. Just past those trees, he knows, just past those trees lies everything he's waited for. Camelot is past those trees. His castle and his room are past those trees. Merlin and Guinevere and Gaius are past those trees. Leon and Elyan and Gwaine and Percival are past those trees. His people are past those trees. His _home _is past those trees. Something inside him screams, tears and rips and fights for it all, and Arthur's stomach flips because _it's finally time. _

Arthur throws Lancelot a look as they reach the end, and he knows that it's uneasy and careful and gut-wrenching and _terrifying, _but Lancelot just nods and holds his head high and strong and keeps his face unreadable yet comforting, and Arthur realizes he's thankful for that. Lancelot has a soothing presence, he always has and did and will always have that, and Arthur is suddenly, amazing grateful because whatever is on the other side of the trees, right or wrong, good or bad, he has Lancelot, strong, loyal, true Lancelot by his side, and Arthur wonders how he ever thought he could have done this alone.

Arthur swallows and nods back, and with a deep breath, they break through the trees.

Their jaws drop open and hang, bewildered in mid-air, and Arthur's eyes widen until he feels they might pop out of his head.

"By the Lord," Lancelot whispers, nonplussed. "What in God's name – "

They look dumbstruck down the path to Camelot – or, at least, the place where Camelot had once been. The city, the entire castle, market-place, training grounds, _everything, _lies hidden, cocooned under a vast forest of shadowy thorns, long and thick and twisted and sharp, ensnaring the entirety of the city like a blanket of needles. The two can barely see anything; only the tallest towers of the castle rise high enough to be properly seen. The rest is entirely encircled in blackened brambles and darkness.

"What the hell happened?" Arthur asks softly, utterly confounded. "What the _hell _happened?"

"We need to find out" Lancelot said grimly. "Come, sire, we have to find out what's going on!"

Lancelot rears his horse and, with Arthur following his example, they set off at a run again, racing for the front gates. Arthur nearly falls off his horse when they reach the thorn-wrapped gate, practically jumping out of the saddle and rushing toward the gate. For a short moment he stops, examining the thorny vines, and then he yanks Excalibur from it's sheath and slices fiercely at the offending plant. Excalibur cuts through the vines like butter and Arthur, triumphant, hacks and cuts and slashes with new, zealous impatience.

Lancelot comes up beside him and draws his own sword, striking out. His sword bounces off the vines, leaving only the tiniest of gashes. A full cut would take hours to make. He frowns, thinking, and then it clicks in his mind.

"They're magical, Arthur!" Lancelot exclaims at once. "The vines, they're enchanted!"

"That's a bit _obvious_, Lancelot," Arthur retorts sarcastically, still slicing.

"I meant that they're completely resistant to anything non-magical!" Lancelot explains. "They're completely viable to non-magical weapons. Excalibur was forged in dragon's breath, that's why mine won't cut through. Excalibur disrupts magical qualities – it's the only thing that can get us inside."

"Right. Lovely," Arthur mutters through gritted teeth, but he continues his assault on the bewitched plants, cutting through layer after layer after layer of vines keeping him from his city. Lancelot replaces his sword in its hold, watching Arthur quietly as he hacks away at the thorns. Arthur can feel the ache starting in his arm from the force of his blows (it's almost _desperate _how he fights against it), but he ignores it, blocks it out and continues to throw himself into the strokes.

After a few long, tedious minutes, Arthur sees a sliver of light through a thick coppice of vines, and his heart races faster as he pushes himself into that spot, slicing quicker and harder than before. Lancelot shifts behind him, watching with calm face; Arthur can feel his anxiousness though, hidden under the knight's almost stoic composure, tangible in the air between them, and he knows it well because his own is floating there as well, thickening the already tense air they're sharing.

Finally there's an opening in the vines large enough to slide through. Arthur slumps, panting, flushed and sweaty from his vigorous attack. Lancelot grips his shoulder and squeezes, giving him a small smile of encouragement, and Arthur nods assent, straightening up to breathe more deeply. When he's taken his fill of clean, cool air, the king slides his sword away, then, grimacing, looks to the tall but slim passage hacked mercilessly into the fauna.

"It's not very wide," Arthur says, still a bit breathless. "So watch your face." Arthur steps forward then, and with a pointed look at Lancelot and a prayer for luck, Arthur covers his face with his arm, turns sideways, and moves carefully through the thorny passage.

The ten seconds it takes to make it to the other side are painful and irritating, and when Arthur pushes himself out of the four-foot thick brush into Camelot's village square, he groans at the multiple stinging cuts he can feel all throughout his body, some quite deep from rough meetings with aggravating magical thorns. Straight away, Arthur takes a small, indistinct scan of the area around him to draw the shortest, most needed important conclusions of his immediate surroundings: no attackers, no immediate danger from any outside forces, no magical onslaught. He nods, satisfied for the moment with the little instinctual information he's got.

Arthur calls out to Lancelot, telling him to proceed. He diligently waits for Lancelot, listening to the rustling of Lancelot verses the plant life and the muttered curses under the good knight's breath. After a moment, Lancelot pushes through the opening as well, arms over his face and thorns stuck in his body. They pull thorns from their skin with hisses of discomfort and a few more curses (because _by god _those thorns are _horrid_), and with that settled, they turn to face Camelot's marketplace, hands on their sword hilts.

"Damn," Arthur spits out darkly. "Damn it all!"

At mid-day, the market-place is shadowed and dark, the sun and sky almost entirely hidden from view by the thorny coating above, and like the rest of the kingdom, Camelot is fully deserted. There aren't even any wild animals, nor horses or dogs; the entire town is utterly silent. The two immediately take action, initiating a thorough search of the centre, checking and rechecking every house, every shop, every forgery and inn and pharmacy and tavern and trading post. They scour the entirety of the market, calling out for civilians, listening for footsteps or laughter, even the coughing of citizens dying of some illness or infliction. Their hunt leads to no avail; every house, every shop and workplace, the training grounds and the fields and gardens are all wholly abandoned. With every pocket, nook, and cranny of the whole town searched, they are once more forced to find that they are completely alone.

"This is madness!" Arthur finally exclaims, clenching his fists tightly. "Where. Has everyone. _Gone?_ Did they just vanish into thin air?"

"But what if they did, Arthur?" Lancelot supplies, still unnervingly calm in his ways. "The entire city is wrapped in a mass of magical thorny vines, every bit of food, water, and merchandise in the kingdom is still in proper, clean shape, and suddenly every Camelotian subject has mysteriously vanished. It's obvious that whatever's happened not just to Camelot, but to all of Albion itself, has been caused by dark magic. Nothing fully _human _did this."

"When I left Camelot, I left it in peace," Arthur says, crossing his arms, thinking seriously. "Who would do something like this? Morgause, Morgana, _and _Mordred are all dead and past, and Merlin, strange as it is, has enough power to defeat an entire army of Saxons alone. I know, I saw it. He's loyal to me and to Camelot, and if I know one thing right now, just one, it's that Merlin would _die_ before he let Camelot fall." Arthur frowns. "So what happened here? What, or _who_, has enough power to do something like _this?_"

"We've not yet been to the castle, sire," says Lancelot, turning to look at the palace curiously. "What ruler doesn't have a throne? Perhaps our answers lie there."

Arthur stares at the castle, still thinking, considering, then lets out a huff, running a hand through his scruffy hair in exasperation. "Perhaps. Whether or not it does, it's the best shot we have."

Lancelot nods affirmatively, and with a long, deep, readying breath, Arthur steels himself and leads them up the path to the castle. He tries not to think along the way.

The castle gate is already raised, the inner courtyard completely open to any passerby (meaning just them, but nonetheless). The courtyard is, as expected, entirely devoid of any life, but unlike the rest of the places Arthur and Lancelot had examined, the yard isn't as well groomed. In fact, both the yard and the castle look oddly disheveled. Cobblestones throughout the area are cracked and some are slightly stained green with gathered moss. Leaves are strewn over the ground, and through the cracks in the pavement, dark, malnourished roots stretch and squirm, reaching for sunlight they'll never find. Some already lie dead and dry on the pavement. The castle walls look dirty, sections of wall coated in age-old ash and sooty smudges, other parts darkened and discolored from lack of care-taking. Banners and flags still hang, some ripped and torn, others faded from bright red into maroon and cordovan. The breeze blows sheepishly through the yard, as if to fill the spaces left behind by the people of Camelot.

The castle's doors have also faded and rot, termite-ridden and scratched and discolored. They're still surprisingly sturdy, however, and when Arthur pushes on them they swing open willingly, creaky and moaning with age. He steps in slowly, moving a few steps into the hall, letting his eyes roam and observe the corridor as Lancelot comes up behind him, covering his flank. Empty, of course, Arthur expects nothing more, nothing less, but the castle has a more desolate feel that anywhere else. The wall torches are unlit; they look, in fact, like they haven't been used in a very long time. The stone walls are covered in a thin layer of dust, as well are the floors. The castle is unnaturally cold, and as the doors fall closed behind Lancelot, chills shoot down Arthur's spine.

"Anything?" Lancelot inquires from behind him.

"No," Arthur says evenly, holding back a sigh. "Looks like another dead end."

"Let's keep searching, then," Lancelot says, almost gently. "There's _got _to be something here, there's just got to be, I can feel it."

Arthur stops another sigh, replacing it with a tight-lipped nod. He begins forward again, moving at a steady, gradual pace down the corridor, Lancelot at his heels. They keep their steps as quiet as possible as they walk over the solid slabs of white-stoned floor, always watching and listening, fingers twitching near their sword sheaths. Goosebumps prickle over their skin in the cold palace; Arthur ignores the temptation to light a torch.

They reach the end of the hallway and carefully peer into the next one, scouting for anything out of the ordinary before turning the corner and starting their way down the adjacent corridor. They repeat this again and again as they move deeper into the castle, making for the center of the castle, the noise of their breaths their only sounds for a good half-hour or so.

"Nothing?" Lancelot asks as Arthur moves carefully around the corner of the eighth hallway, still treading lightly, cautiously listening and observing.

"I don't think so," Arthur replies after a moment. "This one's empty too. I don't think – "

_CLANG!_

Both men jump in surprise, hearts pounding as the crashing noise rips through the quiet stillness of the hallway. They both freeze, not daring to move or speak or even breathe, listening intently for another sound, anything to indicate where the noise had come from. Their hearts are still pounding fiercely, jumping into their throats and back. Their hands have started to their sides, gripping their hilts tightly. They strain their ears, waiting.

A few long, nerve-wracking moments pass, and then they hear a shuffling echo from nearby. Slowly, the king and his knight turn back down the hallway they had just come up, twisting around to look back at the shut doors of the throne room they had passed only moments ago, standing mutely, and now quite eerily, in the middle of the hallway. The shifting noise stops for a moment, silence, and then the _something _is stirring again, scrambling softly around inside the room.

Lancelot throws Arthur a look and Arthur returns it, weighing his thoughts on Lancelot's silent question. After a moment of quick deliberation in his mind, Arthur nods at the knight and Lancelot's dark eyes whisper assent. The shifting noise from within the throne room continues as Arthur steps forward, Lancelot at his side, moving as quietly and swiftly as possible toward the wooden doors. They stop directly in front of the doors. The noise pauses again, and they wait, and then it continues on again, almost like it's _pacing_. Whatever_ it _is.

The king thinks quickly, letting his instincts fuel his thoughts. Ideas and plans flash through his mind, deliberations on what to do and how to do it. He stares at the doors, still listening, quieting his breath as his mind races and processes and comes to a spry decision.

They need to know what's on the other side of that door. And they need to know _now._ This may be their only chance – and their only plan.

Arthur braces himself, then looks quietly at Lancelot, meeting his eyes. He draws his sword slowly and silently from its hold, and holds a finger from his empty hand to his lips as he gestures for Lancelot to do the same. Lancelot carefully parrots the move, waiting on Arthur's orders. Arthur holds his sword ready and Lancelot copies, lifting his defensively. The knight catches Arthur's eyes again, nodding.

_Ready. _

Arthur gives one quick nod in understanding, grips his sword ever tighter, and listens one last time. The noise continues unhindered, unaware of the knights standing just outside its lodging.

Arthur lifts his empty hand, signaling. Lancelot falls into a battle stance as Arthur flicks his fingers up in a countdown.

_One. _

Breathe.

_Two. _

Set.

_Three. _

Go.

With that Arthur leans back, kicks, and breaks open the doors with loud, resounding clatters. The two rush in, swords raised, adrenaline in their veins and battle cries on their lips –

"Hello, Arthur Pendragon."

**JUST. JUST NO. GOD JUST NO. HERE, LISTEN TO M Y PITY PARADE.**

**I just finished sophomore year. I was kept from updating by the presence of four MAJOR GRADE AS IN 65% OF MY FINAL FREAKING GRADE projects all due around the same time, an AP History Test, a college level entry test for Duel Credit U.S. History, a surprise trip to Orlando in which I rode the Harry Potter ride EIGHT AMAZING FREAKING TIMES, my cousins visiting for the Anime Convention in Dallas TX, a week-long church camp, another week-long vacation to my family's lakehouse, my weekly counseling sessions, two reading assignments for school in August, my workbook for driver's ED, and my new responsibilities since my parents have decided to separate. **

**Whoopedy freaking DOO.**

******I'm sorry if I seem tense, I'm actually very very angry at myself for taking so much time to just sit down and let my writerness flow. And I'm not really defending myself either, I'm just informing you why I've waited/been held up for so very long. I really am sorry for the wait, do forgive me. My updates have been, and definitely will be now with all of my extra responsibilities around the house, sporadic, and I hate that I can't just ignore all of my priorities and just sit down and write forever. **

******God, I really am very sorry. You're all so patient with me and I just take that for granted sometimes. I don't even know how you put up with me and waiting for me to update ANYTHING.**

******I'm going to go ahead and stop here, I'm just too tired to get down on myself right. I do hope you still have it in yourselves to forgive me. AGAIN. UGH.**

******If any of you see any mistakes in this, please let me know. I can't think well enough to beta at the moment, my head is killing me. Thanks again.**

******I welcome all reviews, comments, concerns, and insults. Like SERIOUSLY.**


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